When, paging away loneliness,
I go to bed,
A strange feeling chafes my chest.
Akin, chronic feeling.
As unavoidable ticking
Measures melancholia,
Dreams, astir, still bellow,
Pitching a tent
On the dark side of the Moon.
Memories behind the eyelids
Swell like a March river,
Depositing faces, names,
But trudging photographs,
Tin cans, essences spent.
The sea of moonlight glitters
Like your stranger smiles
Dyed with stories and sand.
Opening my eyes offers only
Undulating silence,
Which knows
That you
Are not
There.
You, love, are my Moon.
Any swan would understand.